


more beauty in truth

by Scrivoio



Series: east of eden [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M, because he is a Kind Soul, bruce is Moody, but only kind of and only because he can't keep secrets to save his life, but only very briefly - Freeform, but still, clark does his best to be understanding, its more of word vomit than anything else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:35:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27408160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrivoio/pseuds/Scrivoio
Summary: With a sharp pain, Clark is reminded of how delicate Bruce is, how close he came to losing him forever. Suddenly overcome with the emotions he’s been repressing all day, Clark boils over. “It’s that I love you, okay? You stupid, selfless, arrogant son of a bitch. I love you. I am in love with you. I mean, Jesus, Bruce, it’s all I can do when I walk into a room with you to not jump you on the spot, okay? And seeing you like you were today… It kills me. Every time. Because I worry that if I stop listening, even for a second, that you could die. Because no matter how much training you have, or how many weapons you bring with you, or how many contingency plans you fuckin’ make, you’re still just a man.”Clark sighs, something hard and cold and heavy settling in his chest. “You’re still just a man, Bruce, and you bleed like a man, and, someday, you’ll die like a man. So understand that I worry, every second of every day, that something will happen, and I won’t be there, and you’ll be gone. And I’ll have to live the rest of my life knowing your life ended when it didn’t have to, when I could have saved you.”
Relationships: Batman/Superman, Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Series: east of eden [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2000494
Comments: 5
Kudos: 80





	more beauty in truth

**Author's Note:**

> "There's more beauty in truth, even if it's dreadful beauty."

The raid had gone very wrong, very quickly. As soon as Clark heard the uptick in Bruce’s usually-steady heartbeat, he’d known something wasn’t right. After so long knowing Bruce, Clark had learned his heartbeat better than almost anyone else’s. He kept tabs on it, sometimes from halfway across the planet. Could pick it out of a crowd with ease, could tell the difference between physical exertion and emotional distress. 

(Usually, Clark tried his best not to think too much about the implications of all that.)

(Usually, he failed.)

Implications aside, Clark knew when Bruce’s heartbeat turned uneven and fast, almost stuttering, that something was wrong. He barely wrestled himself into the suit before he made his way out the window, almost broke the sound barrier tracking Bruce’s heartbeat to a warehouse in Crime Alley. 

_Of course._

Of course, Bruce would be here tonight— how could Clark have forgotten? It had been nearly thirty years since Bruce’s parents’ deaths, but time didn’t stop Bruce’s vigil: every year, on the anniversary of his parents' death, Bruce would make the trek down to Crime Alley, often without his cape and cowl. Nobody really knew what Bruce spent those nights doing— it was an unspoken rule among the bats that Bruce should be left alone for as long as he was there. Even Clark felt guilty about spying on his heartbeat those nights. 

This time, though, Clark was glad he had. By the time Clark got there, Bruce had been shot twice, blood dripping sluggishly from a shallow cut spanning his cheek, jaw, and some of his neck. He was fighting on eight fronts, energy clearly flagging. It looked as if there had been close to twenty men at one point, maybe a sniper, bodies sprawled out on the floor in various states of injury. 

_Thank god he’s wearing the cowl,_ Clark thought, briefly relieved, as he swooped down. 

...

Bruce ends up being fine. Fine by Batman’s standards, anyway. (Unfortunately, that mostly entails being able to breathe unaided by a ventilator; the bar is on the _floor_.) He’s capable of walking, adrenaline keeping him on his feet. He doesn’t say a word to Clark as they leave the warehouse together, and doesn't so much as make eye contact when Clark claps him on the shoulder apologetically. 

“I’ll see you around, B,” Clark says, as softly as he can. 

God, there’s nothing Clark wants more than to gather Bruce in his arms and fly him back to the Manor himself. He knows Bruce well enough to know that Bruce is capable of walking his stubborn ass back to the Manor himself and that Bruce is prideful enough to prefer a three-hour trek through the shadows over a two-minute flight in Clark’s arms. 

He follows Bruce home from a distance, watches as his friend makes his way home in the safety of shadows. _His injuries aren’t fatal,_ Clark tells himself, _He’s fine. He’ll be gold as new in a few weeks, stubborn bastard._

He watches Bruce make his way into the cave, sans Batmobile. Clark allows himself a sigh of relief as he sees his friend enter the relative safety of his home.

...

When Clark opens his apartment door, he already knows Bruce is waiting for him inside. It’s instinctual at this point. Not a feeling of dread, but it’s a near thing. 

He’s probably sitting in Clark’s rocking chair by the window, running his hands through his hair or pinching the bridge of his nose in a (likely failed) attempt to relieve a stress headache. He might still be in the cape and cowl, or he might have changed into civvies when he stopped at the Manor. 

Clark hasn’t even flipped the lights on when he hears Bruce’s voice. “What the hell, Clark.” 

When he’s really angry, Bruce’s voice loses all inflection. He asks questions like they’re statements, tone deadpan and quietly vicious. It’s like he regresses back into Batman like the cowl is some impenetrable defense mechanism. It’s one of the little quirks Clark has noticed over the course of his tenure as Bruce’s… friend.

Clark frowns to himself. Wonders: _is friends the right word for what we are?_ Did friends sit together on the sofa, knees touching just close enough for body heat to radiate through layers of clothing and skin? Did friends feel weak at each others’ smiles? At eyes so achingly familiar, so intimate, yet so far away? Is this how _‘friends’_ was supposed to feel?

Suddenly, Clark is snapped out of his reverie by a throat clearing from the middle of the room. _Right._ Bruce. Pissed off. 

_Pay attention, Clark._

“Clark. Are you even listening?”

“Um. Yes.” Clark blinks a few times, clears his throat. “I’m sorry. I never should have followed you to that warehouse. I shouldn’t have…” _Stalked you._ “Kept tabs on you like that.” _Especially tonight._ “I know it pisses you off, B. I just worry sometimes. Most of the time.” 

Bruce sighs from where he’s sitting in Clark’s rocking chair. He looks strangely at-home there like he belongs among the piles of books, Gotham skyline visible through the window at his back. His chest and shoulder are bandaged, Clark notes with some relief. There’s a butterfly bandage on a laceration over his eyebrow and several more on the gash along the side of his face. _Alfred must have looked him over._

“I’m not… I’m not some _child_ that you have to babysit,” Bruce spits. 

Clark’s eyes widen, “Of course not! I never thought you were, Bruce. It’s just…” Clark makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, part grunt and part whine. 

“It’s _what_ , Clark?”

“Nevermind. I’m just stupid.”

“Clark,” Bruce says, more softly this time. 

Clark looks up, and that’s his first mistake. His second is meeting Bruce’s gaze. Suddenly, it’s like the space between them is a vacuum and Clark and Bruce are magnets, opposite poles facing each other, pulled toward each other with no resistance except their own willpower. 

With a sharp pain, Clark is reminded of how delicate Bruce is, how close he came to losing him forever. Suddenly overcome with the emotions he’s been repressing all day, Clark boils over. “It’s that _I love you_ , okay? You stupid, selfless, _arrogant_ son of a bitch. I love you. I am _in love_ with you. I mean, _Jesus,_ Bruce, it’s all I can do when I walk into a room with you to not _jump you on the spot_ , okay? And seeing you like you were today… It kills me. Every time. Because I worry that if I stop listening, even for a second, that you could _die_ . Because no matter how much training you have, or how many weapons you bring with you, or how many contingency plans you fuckin’ make, you’re still just a _man_.”

Clark sighs, something hard and cold and heavy settling in his chest. “You’re still just a man, Bruce, and you bleed like a man, and, someday, you’ll die like a man. So understand that I worry, every second of every day, that something will happen, and I won’t be there, and you’ll be gone. And I’ll have to live the rest of my life knowing your life ended when it didn’t have to, when I could have saved you.”

“You… Love me?” Bruce’s eyes are wide, his voice soft and… scared? “Clark?”

Clark’s eyes snap up, brows furrowing in the middle of his forehead. “ _That’s_ what you got from that whole speech?”

Bruce, for once in his godforsaken life, is silent. 

“I… I really thought you knew. I thought it was obvious.” 

Bruce blinks. 

Clark can feel his heart speed up, fingertips prickling with anxiety. “So much for the world’s greatest detective,” he jokes. 

Bruce walks over to the couch, slowly, as if dazed, and sits down. Puts his head in his hands. Lets loose a deep sigh. “I’m such a fool.” 

Clark frowns. “I… I’m not sure I know what you mean, Bruce.” He walks over to the couch, carefully, hesitantly, approaching his friend like one might approach a wounded animal on the side of the road. He sits down. 

“It wasn’t obvious,” Bruce mutters. “In fact, it doesn’t even make sense. I did the _math_.”

Clark snorts. “How many times do I have to tell you that people aren’t numbers, Bruce?”

“They are, though. And I’m good with numbers. But you…” Bruce chuckles, “You’re an outlier. Always have been, Clark.” 

“I don’t… Thank you?” Clark shakes his head, “I’m sorry. Aren’t you supposed to be pissed off at me?”

“I _am_ pissed off at you,” Bruce replies, “But I’m also in love with you.”

Flying has always been intrinsic to Clark, ever since he first got to Earth. He’s never really felt what it is to fall. He’s heard stories about amusement park rides and airplane turbulence, about feeling like your stomach has fallen down into your shoes. He’s heard about base jumping, about those few seconds in between your jump off the platform and the hard stop when you reach the end of the rope. He’s heard about what it’s like, from Lois, to be a human and to fly with someone like him. He’s heard about it, but he’s never _understood_. Not like this. Not until now. 

This. 

This is falling. 

This, he can understand. 

(And, God, is he glad he’s sitting down at this moment.)

“You’re _wha_ _t_?"

“In love with you,” Bruce says it like it’s the easiest thing. “Why wouldn’t I be? I mean, there aren’t… There are no alternatives. It’s always been you.”

_It’s always been you._

“Don’t play with me, Bruce.” Clark’s voice is more tiny and fragile than it’s ever been in his life, he thinks. 

Bruce whips his head around, eyebrows knit in the middle of his forehead. “I would never. Clark, I _could_ never. I thought… all this time, I thought you knew how I felt and you were too polite to say anything. I thought you were just… willing to let it slide.”

“I guess we’re both idiots, then,” Clark says, the shock beginning to clear from his head. 

Tentatively, he reaches for Bruce’s hand. Grips Bruce’s scarred fingers in his own. Squeezes once. 

Bruce, firmly and without hesitation, squeezes back. 

Clark is falling, and he’s never felt more mortal. 

Or more unafraid. 

**Author's Note:**

> comments are always appreciated :)


End file.
